The Boredom in Being Healthy
by BellaMonte
Summary: A stomach flu epidemic spreads through Brandy Hall, and only a few seem to escape it, one being Frodo Baggins. A somewhat different approach on the "Frodo sick" fics.


Title: The Boredom of Being Healthy

Author: BellaMonte

E-Mail: bellamonte@aol.com

Rating: G

Genre: General, and a failed attempt at Humor

Disclaimer: Characters belong to one J. R. R. Tolkien

Summary: A sudden stomach flu epidemic spreads through Brandy Hall, and only a few seem to escape it, including one Frodo Baggins. A somewhat different approach on the "Frodo sick" fics. 

  
  


A/N: I honestly don't know exactly where this story came from. The only explanation I can come up with is that after reading so many Frodo-sick fics (all of which I love to death) I fount it hard sometimes to relate to sick Frodo because I'm so healthy. Hence, I decided to write a LoTR non-sick Frodo fic. Inspiration derived from being one of the very few in my dorm who did not come down with the flu a few months back. 

  
  


I want to mention that this story means no disrespect towards the "Frodo Healers" for I love their fics dearly. Claudia, LilyBaggins, Frodo Baggins of Bag End, etc., are all wonderful writers. In writing this, I'm merely taking an opposite stand on the whole idea of illness in the Shire. I mean no offense. 

  
  


On the symptoms, diagnosis, treatments of sickness in this fic, I tried to keep it medically accurate as to how it is articulated in health books. 

  
  


I hope you enjoy the story!

  
  


~*~

  
  
  
  


"Are you sure it's not measles, Dr.Little?"

  
  


"Quite sure, Mrs. Brandybuck. That would be accompanied by red spots." 

  
  


"Well, what about palsy?" 

  
  


"That induces tremors in the muscles. It's not exactly the same as stomach cramps." 

  
  


"Well, are you sure it's not pneumonia?"

  
  


Dr. Little knew that it was wrong to laugh in the face of illness, yet it was becoming difficult to suppress a slight grin while listening to Hilda Brandybuck's parade of assumptions about her son. From the way she was attributing every symptom and ailment to something far more serious than it actually was made it sound as though she wanted her son to be mortally ill, rather than admit he was fussing over nothing more than the stomach flu. 

  
  


"But that can't be just it, doctor, he's just burning up," Hilda Brandybuck whispered. Her shining eyes went back to her son. 

  
  


Doderic's eyes fluttered open, and focused on his mother as she caressed his flaming forehead. "It's hurts, Mama...it hurts so bad," he moaned, weakly. 

  
  


"Badly, Doddy dear, not bad," she scolded. Ill or not, there was never a time when she shouldn't fail to correct him in his language skills. When he did not nod in reply, but cringed as though he'd just tasted something sour, she looked up to the doctor, anxiously. 

  
  


"Oh, will he be all right, doctor?"

  
  


"He'll be just fine, Hilda. It's just a stomach flu," he reminded. "In which case, he'll go through bouts of nausea, vomiting, and a general weak, sickly feeling for the next few days. But after that, it will be pass, and he will be fine in less than a week's time, just like everyone else." 

  
  


"Oh, thank goodness!" Hilda breathed, nearly collapsing on top of the child in relief. "I was so afraid that it was something really serious the way he's been fussing. Are you sure that's all it is? I mean, can't the stomach flu turn into worse things?"

  
  


It would have been wrong to laugh at her assumptions, considering she was correct. Still, Dr. Little had tended to so many hobbits in his time with far more serious ailments than the stomach flu, it was hard to not find a bit of humor as the mother reassured her boy that he was going to live. As his humored gaze wandered to the door, he caught the pair of large blue eyes peering at him from the doorway. He winked before turning back. 

  
  


"Now, don't worry your own self sick, Mrs. Brandybuck. The stomach flu's a nasty business, but it's nothing worse. It's just the same as everyone in Brandy Hall has had this week." 

  
  


"Indeed, it was all because of that wretched Eleanor Hardbottle," she said, grinding her teeth and clutching at the bed sheets, furiously. "It was her that brought it from Tookland on her last visit, and it's stricken practically every young soul in Brandy Hall." 

  
  


Dr. Little nodded. It was true, in the last week he had taken a trip to Brandy Hall at least once a day in order to attend to nearly all of the young children, tweenagers and many of the adults who resided there. While epidemics were common in such a largely inhabited dwelling, this stomach flu had proven especially bad for the younger generations. After four days of wearily journeying to and from Brandy Hall, he had been invited to spend his nights there, considered there would surely be more sick hobbits the next morning. After all those he and a few accompanying doctors had treated, it seemed as though he was nearly the only one who had not caught it. Well, him, and as he was reminded of the pair of eyes still peeking out from the doorway, one other.

  
  


"Of course, there are always exceptions to illnesses, even ones as nasty and contagious as the stomach flu," he continued. "We must not forget myself, as well as young Frodo here." From his position in the doorway, the fifteen year old hobbit backed away slightly at the sudden acknowledgment of his presence. 

  
  


Hilda Brandybuck looked up, and at seeing Frodo, she laughed gravely. "Ah yes, well the dear lad chooses to stay away from his cousins as much as possible. That's just his contemptuous, solitary nature, so it's no trouble for him to avoid it," she said, and went back to tucking the covers up to her son's chin. 

  
  


"Yes, well consider also my dear Mrs. Brandybuck that perhaps the lad's smart enough to stay away from his ill cousins and spare himself such aches and pains," Dr. Little said, seeing the tweenager's head drop slightly at his aunt's remark. At this own words, however, the dark, curly haired head look up again and Dr. Little saw his mouth perk up in a smile. 

  
  


"Now," he said, turning his attention back to Mrs. Brandybuck and began listing the instructions on what to do for Doderic. "Namely, he shouldn't have any food until at least two hours after he has last vomited, and even then he should only ingest light liquids, and then try light foods." 

  
  


Mrs. Brandybuck listened attentively, though Dr. Little had begun to find it tedious giving the same instructions, considering everyone in Brandy Hall had suffered the same. He concluded with what foods to give him when he seemed on the road to recovery, and to contact him if anything out of the ordinary aches, pains and nausea that accompanied the stomach flu occurred. 

  
  


With that, he packed up his bag and proceeded out of the room, giving Frodo a reassuring pat on the head as he did so. Out of all the young hobbits who lived in Brandy Hall, Frodo had been the only one who had not come down with the stomach flu, and had taken to following Dr. Little around when he had gone on his routine examinations to the rooms of his cousins. As he headed to the kitchen for a much desired cup of tea, it was no surprise, therefore, to hear the soft, sprightly patter of feet behind him. 

  
  


"Dr. Little, would you please feel my head again?" Frodo asked, catching his breath as he caught up to him. Dr. Little sighed, pausing to dig into his pocket for his pipe. Would this boy.....no, tweenager, he corrected.....ever give up trying to convince him that he was suffering from some deathly illness? Apparently not. 

  
  


"Really doctor," he insisted, yanking Dr. Little's hand from his pocket. "I think I might be coming down with the stomach flu too. In the past few hours, I've been feeling waves of nausea coming over me, and I'm experiencing chills. Could you feel my head to see?" he asked, and pressed the doctor's hand to his cool forehead, shaded by curly bangs. Two enormous blue eyes stared up at him, expectantly. 

  
  


Dr. Little pressed his lips together tightly in an attempt to suppress a grin. It was astonishing how this strange, but perfectly healthy tweenager, could read off his list of symptoms for the stomach flu just as he had articulated them to Hilda Brandybuck moments before. 

  
  
  
  


"Your head feels fine, Frodo," he replied. 

  
  


Placing his medicine bag down, Dr. Little bent to retrieve his pipe. As he lit it by a spare candle, he glanced down and saw that the little hobbit's shoulders had dropped preciously low and he was chewing on his lip, sorrowfully. Dr. Little puffed out his smoke in bewilderment. 

  
  


"Why in all of the Shire would you want to be sick, Frodo?" he bellowed, and shot the lad an inquiring look. 

  
  


Frodo shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. It's just that everyone else seems to have gotten it except me." 

  
  


"And where's the disappointment in being the sole young hobbit to avoid a very unpleasant and debilitating illness?" he questioned, confident that there was no way the curious hobbit could challenge him at that. Immediately the boy began speaking in his own defense, his words coming out in an eager rush as though he had been waiting to say it for some time. 

  
  


"Well, everyone's allowed to stay in bed and miss studies, and all of their parents are buying them treats and special meals and everyone's so sick that I've got no one to play with, and it's just one more thing that I've been left out of - " 

  
  


"Oh Frodo, hush child!" Dr. Little exclaimed. My, how this child could prattle on! Over the past days, he had gotten to know the young tweenager quite well, being one of the few left standing. After an initial shyness, Frodo had revealed himself to be an extremely lively and talkative hobbit, although a bit strange. This latest plea for sickness was just one example of the hobbit's unusual character, which Dr. Little attributed to his excessive reading and that cracked uncle of his from Hobbiton who visited him from time to time. This demand for illness seemed another perplexing, albeit amusing, to this young tweenager. 

  
  


"Ah Frodo, don't dwell on such things," he said, attempting to reassure the lad with another pat on his head. "The stomach flu's not a pleasant experience, believe me. You know what, I'll bet every one of your cousins is madly jealous of you right now, not having to throw up and be forced to stay in bed all day! Be glad you're well and don't have to go through that." 

  
  


Dr. Little watched with assessing eyes as the hobbit considered this, and finally rewarded him with a nod and a meek smile. Satisfied with his half resolve, Dr. Little headed into the kitchen, still craving a cup of tea. 

  
  


Frodo remained behind in the hall, processing the doctor's words. 'Be glad you're well and don't have to go through with that.' Frodo puffed out his breath in frustration, his bangs fluttering into his eyes. With no disrespect to the kind doctor, Frodo knew better, being the healthy and perfectly sound on. After a week of watching his cousins fall over, one by one, while he remained healthy and alert, he knew better that it was downright boring. 

  
  
  
  


Frodo's heart raced for a second as he remembered that he hadn't felt his forehead in the last few moments. Perhaps he was sick now! Eagerly, he placed his palm to his forehead, hoping to feel warmth, but sighed in despair that he felt downright normal. 

  
  


Even his hands were lukewarm, he thought, examining his small hands with distaste. Maybe if he rubbed them together and made them hot like he did when he was out in the cold. Or no, even better, what he if he kept his face close to the fire? Maybe that would make his face heat up, and then he could run and tell Dr. Little!

  
  


But no, the doctor was leaving soon. Frodo had also gotten the distinct impression that the aging hobbit had already picked up on his little tricks in an attempt to fake being sick. First, he had begun imitating the nauseous expressions of his cousins and making loud groans when Dr. Little passed. When that didn't work, he waited a few days and then collapsed on the floor and began rolling around, clutching his stomach, while Dr. Little was nearby. Yet Dr. Little had merely stepped over him with a wry simle, indicating that he was fully aware of the little hobbit's inability to lie. 

  
  


Dr. Little thought he was crazy for wanting to be sick. Yet Frodo couldn't help it. Considering he had no brothers or sisters of his own, and his parents were dead, he really didn't have anyone to be with while everyone else was resting in bed. While it had been nice having the library to himself for once to read in quiet, it had actually grown terribly lonesome not having to fight for the chair with his cousin Folco. Also, it had begun to hurt so badly passing by so many rooms and watching as his sick cousins were tended to with infinite love and care by their parents, aunts and uncles. Even when Frodo had sworn that some of his aunts and uncles would have traded their children for a frog the way they scolded them so much, this stomach flu had removed all such instances and now all of the parents tended to their children's every need. And as this happened, Frodo couldn't help but watch from outside the room with sad, longing eyes. 

  
  


It would be another half hour before supper. To bide his time, Frodo headed into he library and plunked himself down into the cushioned chair before the fire. Beside him were a few concoctions and wet towels, which smelled terrible. He wrinkled his nose up in disgust at the sour stench. To avoid little things such as this, he supposed he should be grateful that he was so healthy, as Dr. Little had claimed. And yet...seeing all of his cousins pampered so, tucked in, perspiration wiped from their brows, cheeks stroked by tender, loving hands, he couldn't help but clutch the door and blink back tears at times at being healthy, and therefore expected to be able to take care of himself without anyone's help. And yes, it was true, he couldn't take care of himself. But that didn't mean he always wanted to. 

  
  


Frodo was soon jostled out of his wandering thoughts by the sound that resembled a frog croaking from behind him. Swiveling his head around in the chair, he saw that it was his cousin Berilac who had come into the room. He was dressed in only a long nightgown and had a pillow and blanket tucked under one arm. He clutched his stomach with the other. As he entered, he swayed slightly forward as though ready to expel whatever contents were in his stomach. He looked up to see Frodo, and Frodo could see that his eyes were sunken, and his mouth was parted open. Drool dripped down one lip, though he didn't even seem to notice. 

  
  


"Frodo, what are you doing here?" he asked, tossing his pillow on a side cough, still clutching his stomach. "I thought you'd have caught the stomach flu by now. You were still fine when I started to come down with it last week." 

  
  


Frodo shook his head, biting the insides of his lips. He was surprised that his cousin wasn't being sour to him, considering he usually did because he was smaller and didn't play ball with the other. Frodo supposed that he was too sick right now to care. 

  
  


Groaning, Berilac lay down on his back, squirming, as though any position produced some form of discomfort. For a few moments he stared mindlessly at the ceiling, and Frodo was more than happy to go back to staring into the fire. 

  
  


Soon the cook popped her head in the door and announced that supper would be ready soon. "We'll be having blueberry pie tonight, Frodo," she added, sweetly, and Frodo smiled back at her. For some reason, he always got a long really well with adults, such as the cook and the doctor, more so than his cousins. This piece of new delighted him, for the cook knew how much he loved blueberries (one food that he could actually indulge in.) However, the news, brought another painful, frog-like croak from his cousin. 

  
  


"Frodo, you are so lucky that you didn't catch this," Berilac said, gasping and clutching at his stomach. "I felt so sick yesterday that I missed Aunt Pimpernel's stew. I couldn't take a bit without retching. How did you manage to avoid catching it?"

  
  


Frodo shrugged, lamely. "Aunt Hilda thinks it's because I wasn't around when it started to spread," he said. 

  
  


Berilac snorted. "That can't be it, Merry was grabbing your leg plenty the day before he came down with it. Why didn't you?" 

  
  


"I don't know!" he exclaimed, waving his hands up. "It's strange. Dr. Little thought it's because I'm not prone to sickness, and that I'm so healthy that I was able to avoid it." 

  
  


Berilac snorted again. Frodo could see that his eyes were watery with pain. 

  
  


"Lucky you, your mind's so cracked that I suppose it compensates for the rest of you," he said. Frodo felt his cheeks begin to burn uncontrollably. Obviously, his cousin's illness did not take away all of his nastiness and tendency to pick on him as he'd hoped. 

  
  


"It must've been great having Brandy Hall all to yourself," Berilac continued.

  
  


Frodo opened his mouth to protest at this, but paused, his cheeks still red. Managing a fake smile, he couldn't help rubbing it in while he had this rare opportunity. 

  
  


"Oh, it was, Berilac. It was absolutely wonderful to have Brandy Hall all to myself. Since it was just me, I got to run around and I wasn't yelled at, and I got the read in quiet whenever I wanted. Plus," he added, with an extra large, mischievous grin, "I got to eat whatever I wanted from the candy cupboard." The candy cupboard was a secret nook of the kitchen where all of the after dinner treats, such as ginger and sugar lumps were stored, and it was every young hobbit's dream to find out where that nook was. 

  
  


Berilac scowled at him darkly at this last bit of news. Yet he was obviously in too much pain to attack him, and so Frodo couldn't help smiling openly. 

  
  


"Puh! Lucky you," he sneered, adjusting the blankets over himself. "Well get over it, because everyone's getting better."

  
  


"Is that so?" Frodo asked, perking an eyebrow, secretly delighted at the news. 

  
  


"It is indeed," a voice replied from behind them. Both Frodo and Berilac jumped to see Dr. Little had silently entered the room, a cup of tea in his hands. 

  
  


"Hello, Dr. Little," they both said in greeting. 

  
  


"Hello, boys," he said, and settled himself in a nearby chair. "Berilac, how's the stomach?"

  
  


Berilac moaned his frog-like moan again, and rubbed his belly in a motion that reminded Frodo of his Aunt Angeline when she was pregnant. 

  
  


"It still aches, and I think I might throw up again soon." 

  
  


"Then what are you doing in here, then?"

  
  


"Mum said that I could have some tea. I'm also keeping Frodo company." 

  
  


Dr. Little laughed. "Frodo's kept company enough with me this last week. He hasn't been lonely at all, have you, Frodo?" he asked, and looked suggestively at the slightly blushing hobbit. 

  
  


The boy shook his brown, curly head innocently enough at his cousin. However, at turning away from Berilac to face the doctor, Dr. Little winked at him to prove that he'd heard Frodo's earlier speech about the good times in solitude. Frodo smiled, sheepishly. 

  
  


Berilac let out another groan, and Dr. Little observed that his curls were limp on his wet forehead, and he looked as though he was about to have another vomiting fit. 

  
  


"Perhaps it might be best to go back to your room, lad," he suggested. Frodo was surprised to see the usually stubborn hobbit obey by nodding meekly. 

  
  


Once Berilac had shuffled out of the room, blankets and all, Dr. Little took the liberty to inquire, "Feeling any sicker?" 

  
  


Frodo glared at him. "No, I'm feeling just about as healthy as could be," he responded, bitterly. Dr. Little couldn't help but laugh at the fact that boy couldn't pull off a sarcastic tone very well. 

  
  


"That's good news indeed. Now remember that I'll be leaving in the morning. So you're not planning to spring pneumonia on me right before I depart, are you?" he teased. Then he went back on what he said. There was always the chance that Frodo would eventually come down with it. After all, symptoms may not appear for four to five days after initial contraction. 

  
  


Frodo simply smiled, wryly. It had almost become unusual to see a lad with bright, alert eyes, and actual color in his cheeks. "I don't think you need to worry about me, Dr. Little," he grumbled, mildly, "It seems as though I couldn't pick up poison ivy even if I slept in a bed of it." 

  
  


The doctor chuckled at this, and set his cup of tea down so not to spill it. "I wouldn't go that far, Frodo. But there's no doubt about it, you're made of stern stuff to be remain unscathed. Have you always been this healthy?" 

  
  


Frodo raised his shoulders in a shrug. "I suppose so. I mean, I get colds every once in a while and I had pneumonia once when I was really little." 

  
  


"And do you remember what pneumonia was like?" he asked, attempting to make the child....tweenager....recall what a depressing and often dangerous business illness could become. 

  
  


"Not really," Frodo answered, nonchalantly, to the doctor's dismay. "I was only four." 

  
  


"Well, from what you can remember, it wasn't a pleasant cup of tea, now was it?" he asked, cheerfully. It was his greatest wish before leaving to rid this curious hobbit of his desire for illness. 

  
  


"I don't remember the sickness so much," Frodo replied. Suddenly his voice became very soft and distant. "But I do remember that my Mother was there to take care of me." 

  
  


The doctor caught his breath, cursing himself as he realized his mistake. He had unintentionally hit a sensitive subject that should not have been mentioned at all. As he dared glanced at Frodo, he saw the little hobbit stared into the fire, his eyes flood with previously suppressed emotion. 

  
  


'Fool,' Dr. Little cursed himself. He shouldn't have forgotten that this was the orphan who had lost his parents in the Brandywine just three years before. Although he had heard that after several weeks of terrible grief and sleeplessness the hobbit had seemed to recover, it must have been hard for him to continue on, being passed from aunt to uncle, and having no real place within the bustle of Brandy Hall. Dr. Little couldn't help but consider it an even greater blessing that Frodo was not ill since he would not have had anyone to tend him, at least not as attentively as all the others were. 

  
  


As Dr. Little continued to study him with assessing eyes, he could see that despite the hobbit's frailness and meekness of expression, he was a strong, and surviving lad. Perhaps it had been because he had already suffered so much that he had built up an endurance for weakness, one that did not merely pervade his mind, but his body as well. In that sense, he was far stronger and enduring than the others, even if he did not see it that way himself. 

  
  


"It's a wonderful thing to be healthy, Frodo, believe me," he said, his tone more serious than before. "You can't imagine how many hobbits I visit whose greatest fear is that they will one day catch cold or some random illness, and that will be the end of them. Others may fear their crops will not grow, or some other nonsense. Yet health is always, and will always be the greatest thing that a hobbit should worry about. Yet look at yourself, you don't even need to worry about it. Consider it a blessing that there's one thing you need not fear." 

  
  


Frodo continued to pass a book back and forth in his hands, his eyes still transfixed into the fire, clearly bored and uninspired by the doctor's words. "Still, I wish I could've been sick. At least then I could have some of that ginger that all the others were promised when they got better." 

  
  


Smiling, Dr. Little reached into his pocket and deposited a small bag of ginger into his lap. Patting him on the head one last time, he bid the young hobbit good-bye, and retreated from the room. 

  
  


Esmerelda Brandybuck, the wife of Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland, and Frodo's uncle, was courteous enough to see him on his way out. 

  
  


"Thank you for journeying out here on so many notices, Dr. Little," Esmerelda said, as Dr. Little pulled on his coat. "We're all very grateful that you were able to take care of the little ones. When anything as small as a cold arises here, it just spreads like wildfire." 

  
  


Dr. Little nodded in agreement. "Indeed it does. I suppose it was lucky that it was merely the stomach flu and not something more serious." 

  
  


"True. It's a wonder that a few came out unscathed. Many of the adults managed to avoid it, young Peony, who was away most of the week, and my own nephew, Frodo." 

  
  


A grin tugged at Dr. Little's lips as he buttoned up his coat. "Yes, Frodo is quiet a strong lad, Mrs. Brandybuck. I don't believe I've ever seen a more healthy lad. Though he seemed to regard it as being kept out of excitement." 

  
  


Esmerelda's eyes softened at the mention of her nephew. "Indeed, Frodo's got a touch of the ridiculousness about him, I'm afraid. But he is such a good, sweet boy. I'm very glad that he was able to pass this over, after all he's been through already. My husband Saradoc and I both try and make sure that he's well taken care of, and yet it's good to know that he can take care of himself." 

  
  


A shriek of giggles suddenly tore through the main hallway, and Dr. Little and Mrs. Brandybuck turned to see Frodo rush into the hall. His young cousin Merry, who was obviously feeling much better, was on his back, clearly enjoying himself as his older cousin gave him a piggy back ride. 

  
  
  
  


"Frodo!" his Aunt Esmerelda exclaimed. "Put Merry down! He's only been out of bed a few hours now, there's still a good chance that he's contagious!"

  
  


"Really, Aunt Esmy?" he asked, his eyes widening. 

  
  


Then he caught sight of Dr. Little behind Aunt Esmerelda, and froze. With cheeks turning a fresh red, Frodo scuttled out of the hallway, Merry still laughing happily on his back. 

  
  


"Let's hope," Esmerelda said with a belabored sigh, "that he does not fall into worse things." 

  
  


Dr. Little nodded. "Even if he did, Mr. Brandybuck, I've got a feeling that he'd pull through. He's got a stubborn will beyond anything, and a strength so powerful, he resents it!" 

  
  
  
  


The End


End file.
